Jerrick made sure his son, Ricky, was dressed appropriately for the coronation. Though children weren't expected to attend, Ricky had been so eager to visit the capital city that he clung to Jerrick like a lifeline, his tiny hands clutching his father's tunic as if afraid of being left behind in Roche.
The child's enthusiasm was infectious, though it filled Jerrick with a mixture of unease and wonder. A happy smile had spread across Ricky's face, and as Jerrick watched him, he couldn't help but feel a pang of discomfort. "Why don't you speak?" he asked gently, kneeling to meet his son's eyes.
Ricky, barely more than a toddler but already wiser than his years, looked back at his father with a defiant glint. Jerrick had long known his son was capable of speaking—he could feel it in the quiet intensity of the boy's gaze. Yet, Ricky remained silent. Even when he needed something, his tiny hands would reach out, but no words would follow.
